


This time, next time

by TeaHouseMoon



Series: The Vanilla Kinks series [5]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Come play, Dirty Talk, Frotting, John is dirty!, Johnlock - Freeform, Love, M/M, PWP, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Porn, Rimming, Sex, armpits, it's just porn but oh well, johnlock engagement, sniff kink, that couch has seen so much, yes I used the word 'french-kissing'
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-11-10
Updated: 2015-11-10
Packaged: 2018-04-30 21:27:27
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,705
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5180360
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TeaHouseMoon/pseuds/TeaHouseMoon
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>John chuckles, and burrows his face further into the folds of Sherlock's soft, warm cotton pyjama bottoms. Eyes closed, he takes a deep breath in, breathes out contentedly -  the fabric has lost its soapy just-washed scent and now smells only of Sherlock.</p>
            </blockquote>





	This time, next time

"What did you do today?"

John's voice is sleepy, and comes straight from his throat. He lifts his head a bit, sets it more comfortably onto Sherlock's lower belly.

"Hmm?", Sherlock is immersed in a documentary about murders in Victorian London; his eyes don't move from the direction of the telly as he speaks. "Oh, Molly forced me to go find wedding favours. I told her we're not in one of those silly movies she watches constantly, but she wouldn't listen".

John chuckles, and burrows his face further into the folds of Sherlock's soft, warm cotton pyjama bottoms. Eyes closed, he takes a deep breath in, breathes out contentedly - the fabric has lost its soapy just-washed scent and now smells only of Sherlock.  
"Hm, really", he murmurs absently, just to make Sherlock keep talking - because when he does, his deep voice reverberates through his whole body, and reaches John's head like a raspy caress.

"So", Sherlock continues; John rubs his face gently into his abdomen, and Sherlock shifts on the couch to open his legs wider, give him more space. "So we found these handkerchiefs - white satin", John takes another deep breath in; Sherlock clears his throat. "I've decided we'll go for that".

Sherlock turns his face back to the TV; between his legs, John moves again - his face turning towards his belly, his chin digging gently into the crease where thigh meets pelvis, his mouth just above Sherlock's cock, over his trousers - and Sherlock closes his eyes, takes a steadying breath. John is curled up on his side of the couch in a way that no man in his forties would be able to withstand for long, and so he pushes one leg out onto the floor, the other sliding half-bent under him, and finally faces Sherlock fully, mouth and chin delving into folds of cotton covering his pelvis, his nose digging in, inhaling.

"John", Sherlock murmurs, and his hand goes to John's head, strokes his hair, but John doesn't even open his eyes.

"I just want to hug you a bit", he only murmurs back. He takes another deep breath - he's glad Sherlock hasn't just showered; he smells warm, clean sweat and musk and soft skin, and pheromones, and it awakens the animal part of John's brain that makes him want to smell, and taste.  
He wraps an arm under and around Sherlock's hips, burrows his face a bit more between the edge of Sherlock's T-shirt and the waistband of his bottoms, and the other hand comes to help in pushing the shirt up. Sherlock squirms a little, arches his hips for a moment - it feels ticklish, and John smiles, and kisses the patch of skin he's uncovered.

"I haven't -", Sherlock tries, as John's sneaky hand pushes his trousers down, one side, then the other; taking them off always feels and looks awkward, and Sherlock hates them until he manages to get rid of them.  
He chuckles, suddenly seemingly shy.  
"John - I haven't showered since this morning..."

"Hmm, as if I care about that", John growls softly, smiling, and looks up at Sherlock from under his eyelashes, then looks down again. He drops a kiss onto Sherlock's left hipbone, then another, just above the patch of hair that cradles Sherlock's cock. Sherlock's pubic hair is a cluster of thick curls, auburn in colour like the strands that the sun brings out in the riotous locks adorning his head, or like the fuzzy bits on his chest; it looks fucking irresistible.  
He looks up again, meets Sherlock's half lidded eyes, sees that he's lying back completely now, unmoving, a bit tense. The TV is still chattering quietly and forgotten in the background.

"Is this okay?", John asks, his hand going to grab Sherlock's, squeezing it on top of his belly, reassuringly.  
Sherlock smiles.

"Yes. Just - I didn't know that you..."

"I love the way you smell." John drops another kiss in the curls, inhales again; exhales on the skin, and Sherlock arches his back. "I love the feeling of your skin, your body. _Everywhere_ ".

His nose pushes into the hair and the tip strokes Sherlock at the base of his cock, which is now nearly completely hard. John kisses him there, then around it, then under his penis; kisses around his testicles.

"John", Sherlock moans, squirms.

"Knee on my shoulder", John instructs, and guides Sherlock's left leg in place. When he bends down further to keep up the kisses, his shoulder slides down along under the strong thigh, making Sherlock arch up more, open up; John supports him with his arm wrapped under his hips, holds him still as he kisses him between his legs, under his cock, between his buttocks.

"John!", Sherlock cries out again. John breathes deeply, eyes closed, nose pressing into the skin, holding Sherlock’s behind with both his hands now; Sherlock writhes gently in his hold – and then chuckles.

“God, John..”

John chuckles throatily as well, gives one more sniff, gently lowers Sherlock's hips back to the couch and climbs half over him, an arm planted next to his chest to support himself.

Sherlock looks up at him.

“God, you're so…”

“…nasty?”, John suggests huskily on his lips when he's face to face with Sherlock, and they can look into each other's eyes.

 _“Nasty_ ”, Sherlock confirms. John kisses him, and Sherlock can smell his own musk on him, that sweet-damp, intimate scent that belongs only to him; Sherlock moans into John's mouth, and thinks that he's glad to have a partner who's so at ease with their bodies, who has no boundaries because it's them, it's the two of them and everything is good, everything is delicious.

“Well, if this is nasty, you'll be shocked at all the other things I can do”, John husks against his cheekbone, his nose pushing towards his ear, and behind it – _sniffing_.

This time, Sherlock actually laughs.

“Jesus, John. I think I actually heard that line in one of Molly’s dreadful movies!”, he exclaims, looking away and pulling a playfully disgusted expression that accentuates the crinkles at the corners of his eyes. John is unaffected, and continues to kiss him behind his ear, and down the side of his neck.

“Mmm. What kind of movies are these that she watches, then…?”

“Just – just shut up”, Sherlock chides, fake- embarrassed, but when he looks back up at John his smile is open and full of mirth.

John purrs.  
“Or what...?”

He pushes a hand into Sherlock’s hair behind his nape, and as he kisses down his neck and into his collarbone he lifts the shirt higher with his other hand, uncovers his upper chest, folds the fabric under the armpits so that the wisps of dark hair are visible. He kisses his shoulder, then strokes the tip of his nose over one pectoral muscle, lightly until he digs it into the armpit – sniffs. He manages to push his lips in there – warm, soft, Sherlock smell, sweat and soap and the last bit of deodorant and just, his body, male and dark and delicious – before Sherlock squirms and draws his arm against his body to chase away the ticklish sensation. John can't help but growl a bit against his skin; then he moves back to the chest, going to french-kiss a nipple, then the other, coating them both with warmth and saliva, and then pecking them in turns and drawing up.

Sherlock’s breathing is deep again and his gaze, when John looks down at him, is hazy, almost drunk-like. John holds his eyes, and pushes down with his hips, his cock stroking against Sherlock’s on Sherlock’s belly, in his pubic hair. Sherlock arches back a little, but then looks into John's eyes again, feels compelled to, can't help it.

So there's not going to be penetration today; just good, old, hungry, sexy, a bit animalistic frotting – he _loves it._

John’s sturdy calloused hand goes down to wrap around Sherlock, holds him still as he rubs himself alongside him, up - down, and breathes hard on his chest, on Sherlock’s chin, head hanging down and eyes closed. He's panting now _– ah, ah_ – and his hands and prick are hot and sweaty against Sherlock but Sherlock loves it, loves to see John lose control that way. He bucks up a little, and the rhythm of John's hips falter; he breathes out a long exhale, forehead nearly touching Sherlock’s chest, and then looks up again, leans over to kiss Sherlock’s throat.

“Next time, I want to do it”, he growls softly. Sherlock frowns - _do what?_

“Next time I want to kiss you there. Next time we’ll put you in bed and make you comfortable and then I'll kiss you and lick you for an hour”.

He must be high on adrenaline and testosterone and whatever else, because he sounds so feral, and Sherlock feels a shiver curse through his whole body and end in his abdomen, making him buck up again.

“ _God_ , John”.

John starts rutting again – up down against Sherlock’s cock, in his pubic hair, rubbing firmly against his lower belly - and Sherlock reaches a hand out, pinches John's nipple, just once and just lightly, but John jerks up as if he's electric, and leans down to take his mouth in chastisement with a half-kiss, half-bite that stings deliciously.

“Rascal”, he growls.

Sherlock smiles.

“Come on, John. Come on me...”, he murmurs, on his mouth.

John jerks a few more times – rubs against Sherlock, _ah, it's perfect_ – and then he does just as he's been asked, and comes all over Sherlock’s beautiful, sweet-smelling auburn curls, over his cock, his abdomen. Sherlock groans against his mouth, and it takes just a few more pulls from John's wet hand before he comes too, arching up against him. 

"You really - do you really want to do it. What you said?", Sherlock asks quietly a few minutes later, after they've had the chance to get their breath back.

"Mmm. Yes", John husks back, and he sounds as if he's going to fall asleep - and he probably is. "Next time. Next time we'll do it".

As John lies half on him, belly against his belly, their scents now intermingled, one and the same, Sherlock thinks he wants to keep John's smell on himself, forever.

 

 

 

**Author's Note:**

> Please leave a comment if you liked this story! 
> 
> Also follow me on my fandom account @IAmDorothyGale
> 
> ps the idea of John playing with Sherlock's armpit was inspired by the lovely PoppyAlexander - of course she writes much better than I do, but John wanted to do it, so I borrowed it. I love you wifey <3


End file.
